


Steerforth

by TheLittleMuse



Category: David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9627872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleMuse/pseuds/TheLittleMuse
Summary: What if Steerforth had survived and made his way back to London? David has a chance meeting with his one-time friend and hoping to find answers, or at least some closure, they talk for the last time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written because I was always quite disappointed that Steerforth was killed 'offscreen' (what's the book equivalent of offscreen. Offpage? Anyway) and just disappeared from the story. I wanted David and Steerforth to at least have that last conversation/confrontation. So I wrote it. Please excuse my sad attempts to imitate Dickens' writing style.

For some reason I had never expected to see Steerforth back in London. Why, I don’t know; the very thought that he would be too afraid to reappear seems ridiculous to me now. Steerforth never felt shame for anything.

And so there he was, right in front me, in the middle of London. He seemed not to have noticed me, I could have walked past, let my old friend go. Yet, for the sake of Little Emily, of Ham and Mr Peggotty, even for my own sake, I couldn’t walk past.

‘Steerforth!’ I said in a shaky voice. He turned. I couldn’t name the expression on his face. Surprise, certainly, although I wasn’t sure that the mingled regret and fondness that I saw wasn’t an invention of my own desperate mind.

‘Daisy!’ he replied. For the first time that name annoyed me. Was that really what he had always thought of me? Just a naïve little child to pull along, that would follow no matter what. Some of my annoyance must have showed on my face, because Steerforth said, ‘Ah, Copperfield. Come, I have a room, just near here, we can talk more easily there.’

This seemed reasonable, it would hardly be viable to talk on noisy streets, especially considering what I wanted to say, and so I followed him. Steerforth’s rooms were sumptuous, of course, and when we got in Steerforth offered me a drink. I, trying to be businesslike, refused, but one charmed its way into my hands none the less.

Seriously fearing that I was losing sight of what I came in for, I exploded with one word, ‘Why?’

He didn’t do me the injustice of pretending he didn’t know what I was talking about, as unclear as my ‘question’ had been, but his answer, when it came, was odd, as if he couldn’t understand why I was asking. ‘Why, Copperfield,’ he said, ‘you loved her once, didn’t you? You told me all about your childish affection. Surely you must understand. Emily-’

The way he said her name, with a soft caress, angered me so much I cut him off, ‘If you loved her, you would have married her, as scandalous as it would’ve been.’

‘I showed her life! I showed her the world beyond anything she could’ve dreamed. She was caged in that little dirty town and I set her free. I couldn’t have married her and you know why, but I would have kept her very fairly.’

‘Fair?’ I scoffed, ‘You call offering her to Littimer fair?’ but somehow my anger was fading, and I wondered if some part of Emily thought having been on the receiving end of Steerforth’s love for even that short amount of time, and seeing the sights that Steerforth showed her, had been worth it all.

‘Ah, yes. Littimer,’ said Steerforth, and we both remembered that Littimer was now in jail for stealing from Steerforth. ‘I have to admit, she may have had a narrow escape there.’ He gave a charming smile, ‘Well, I hear her and her Uncle are bound for Australia, alls well that ends well, eh?’

Despite his glib dismissal of Emily’s fate, my anger with Steerforth was ebbing away. Not that I was no longer conscious of his fault, only the power of his presence made it seem lesser. My old delight in his friendship returned. Oh, to be able to turn back the clock to a more innocent time! I think he felt that too, as little as he regretted his sin, I think the loss of friendship weighed on him.

Soon we were eating a delightful lunch. I remember quite distinctly thinking that I understood him. Steerforth had never, in all his life, faced a consequence for his actions. He had always been special, set apart; in school he had not only never been beaten, but had had power over the teachers, over their fates, like poor Mr Mell. Added to this he was naturally quite brilliant and so had never had to work a day in his life. I remember when he seemed quite confused when I talked about how busy he must be studying at Oxford. He had possibly read about morality in a book, but had never experienced it first hand. He’d never had to; he was James Steerforth, he did as he wished and everyone else followed.

I had, it seemed, fallen quite silent as I mused on the inner workings of Steerforth, prompting him to quietly awaken me from my thoughts with a hand on my shoulder. ‘Steerforth,’ I said, ‘you do know we can’t see each other again after this, don’t you?’

‘I know,’ he replied, and I don’t think I had ever heard him speak so softly in my life. ‘Do you remember, Little Copperfield, when you used to tell stories in the evenings?’ I nodded; those were still some of my fondest memories. ‘I knew you were a great storyteller, before anybody else. You were my storyteller first.’ He was silent again, and I didn’t disturb it until he said, ‘I always tried, you know. I always tried to do what you would have wanted.’

It was as close to an apology as I would ever get from Steerforth, as strange as it was. It was certainly an odd thought, that Steerforth, lacking his own inner morality, had recognised this, and used me as his … measurement. It was flattering in its own way, and made me love him even more, even now after everything.

I left. Steerforth, had once asked me to remember him at his best. That wouldn’t be hard, that little boy who so needed a friend and found a saviour in Steerforth would remember him always. I often wondered what he saw in me, but that now is a puzzle for another day. One that can never be answered. Steerforth can never be spoken of again; he must remain in the past, a beacon of hope and infamy.


End file.
